by Robin Hobb
He stared at her, waiting for her smile to make her words a jest. But she didn’t smile. She only said quietly, ‘There was no point in discussing it. We knew you would all be opposed. It is time the men of Bingtown remembered that when we first came here, women and children risked just as much as their men did. We all fight today, Reyn. Better to die in battle than live as slaves after our men have died trying to protect us.’
Grag spoke with a sickly smile. ‘Well, that’s optimistic.’ His eyes studied his mother for an instant. ‘You, too?’
‘Of course. Did you think I was fit only to cook for you, and then send you out to die?’ Naria Tenira offered the bitter words as she set a steaming apple pie on the table. Her next words were softer. ‘I made this for you, Grag. I know it’s your favourite. There is meat and ale and cheese set out in the dining hall, if you’d rather. Those who went out before you wanted a hearty meal against the cold.’
It might be their last meal together. If the Chalcedeans did overrun them today, they would find the larder empty. There was no point in holding anything back any more, whether food or beloved lives. Despite the hovering of destruction, or perhaps because of it, the warm baked fruit, redolent of honey and cinnamon, had never smelled so good to Reyn. Grag cut slices with a generous hand. Reyn set the first piece of the warm pie before Selden and accepted another for himself. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. He could think of nothing else to say.
As Tintaglia circled high above Bingtown harbour, the simmering anger in her finally boiled. How dare they treat a dragon so? She might be the last of her kind, but she was still Lord of the Three Realms. Yet at Trehaug, they had turned her aside as if she were a beggar knocking at their door. When she had circled the city and roared to let them know she would land there, they had not bothered to clear the wharf of people and goods. When finally she had come down, the people had run shrieking as her beating wings swept crates and barrels into the river.
They had hidden from her, treating her visit with disdain instead of offering her meat and welcome. She had waited, telling herself that they were fearful. Soon they would master themselves and give her proper greeting. Instead, they had sent out a line of men bearing makeshift shields and carrying bows and pikes. They had advanced on her in a line, as if she were a straying cow to be herded, rather than a lord to be served.
Still, she had kept her temper. Many of their generations had passed since a dragon came calling on them. Perhaps they had forgotten the proper courtesies. She would give them a chance. Yet when she greeted them just as if they had made proper obeisance to her, some behaved as if they could not understand her, while others cried out ‘she spoke, she spoke’ as if it were a wonder. She had waited patiently for them to finish squabbling amongst themselves. At last, they had pushed one woman forwards. She pointed her trembling spear at Tintaglia and demanded, ‘Why are you here?’
She could have trampled the woman, or opened her jaws and sprayed her with a mist of toxin. Yet again, Tintaglia swallowed her anger and simply demanded, ‘Where is Reyn? Send him forth to me.’
The woman gripped her spear more tightly to still its shaking. ‘He is not here!’ she proclaimed shrilly. ‘Now go away, before we attack you!’
Tintaglia lashed her tail, sending a pyramid of casks into the river. ‘Send me Malta, then. Send me someone with the wit to speak before she makes threats.’
Their spokeswoman stepped backwards to the line of cowering warriors and conferred briefly there. She only took two steps from the shelter of the mob before proclaiming, ‘Malta is dead, and Reyn is not here.’
‘Malta is not dead,’ Tintaglia exclaimed in annoyance. Her link with the female human was not as strong as it had been, but it was not gone, either. ‘I weary of this. Send me Reyn, or tell me where I may find him.’
The woman squared herself. ‘I will tell you only that he is not here. Begone!’
It was too much. Tintaglia reared back on her hind legs and then crashed down on her forelegs, making the dock rock wildly. The woman staggered to her knees, while some of the warriors behind her broke ranks and fled. A lash of Tintaglia’s tail swept the dock clean of crates and barrels. Tintaglia seized the woman’s puny spear in her jaws, snapped it into splinters, and spat them aside. ‘Where is Reyn?’ she roared.
‘Don’t tell!’ one of the warriors cried, but a young man sprang forth from them.
‘Don’t kill her! Please!’ he begged the dragon. He swept the other spear-carriers with a scathing glance. ‘I will not sacrifice Vala for the sake of Reyn! He brought the dragon down on us; let him deal with her. Reyn is gone from here, dragon. He went on Kendry to Bingtown. If you want Reyn, seek him there. Not here. We offer you nothing but battle.’
Some shouted that he was a traitor and a coward, but others sided with him, telling the dragon to leave and seek out Reyn. Tintaglia was disgusted. She levered herself back onto her hindquarters, allowing the pinioned woman to escape, brought her clawed forelegs down solidly on the dock, dug in her claws and dragged them back, splintering the planking of the dock. It crumpled like dry leaves. A lash of her tail smashed two rowing boats tied to the dock. She let them see that her destruction was effortless.
‘It would take nothing at all for me to bring your city crashing down!’ she roared at them. ‘Remember it, puny two-legs. You have not seen nor heard the last of me. When I return, I shall teach you respect, and school you how to serve a Lord of the Three Realms.’
They rallied then, or tried to. Several rushed at her, spears lowered. She did not charge them. Instead, she spread her wings, leaped lightly into the air, and then crashed her weight down on the dock once more. The impact sent the humans’ end of the dock flying up, catapulting would-be defenders into the air. They fell badly, landing heavily. At least one went into the water. She had not waited for more of their disrespect, but had launched herself into the air, leaving the dock rocking wildly. As she rose, people screamed, some shaking fists, others cowering.
It mattered nothing to her. She sought the air. Bingtown. That would be the smelly little coastal town she had flown over. She would seek Reyn there. He had spoken for her before; he could speak again, and make them all understand the wrath they would face if they did not do as she commanded them.
And now she was here, riding a chill winter wind over the huddled town below. Fading white stars pricked the winter sky above her; below were a few scattered yellow lights in the mostly sleeping town. Dawn would soon stir the human nest. A foul stench of burning wafted up to her. Ships filled the harbour, and along the waterfront, watch-fires burned at irregular intervals. Beside the fires, she saw men pacing restlessly. She dug back in her memories. War. She witnessed the stink and clutter of war. Below her, thick smoke from a dockside building suddenly blossomed into orange flame. An outcry arose. Her keen eyes picked out the shapes of men running furtively away as a much larger group converged on the fire.
She dropped lower, trying to discern what was going on. As she did so, she heard the unmistakable hiss of arrows in flight. The flaming projectiles missed her, striking instead a ship where they swiftly went out. A second volley followed the first. This time, a sail on one of the ships caught fire. Flames from the tarred and burning shaft ran swiftly up the canvas towards her. She beat her wings hastily to gain altitude, and the wind of her passage fanned the racing flames. On the deck of the burning ship, men yelled in astonishment. They pointed past their burning sail to the dragon silhouetted above the ship.
She heard the twang of a bow, and an arrow sang past her. She side-slipped the errant missile, but others took swift flight against her. One of the puny shafts actually struck her, pecking harmlessly against the tight scaling on her belly. She was both astonished and affronted. They dared to attempt to harm her? Humans sought to oppose the will of a dragon? Anger flared in her. Truly, the skies had been empty of wings for far too long. How dared humans assume they were the masters of this world? She would teach them now how foolish that concept was. She
chose the largest of the ships, folded her wings and plummeted down towards it.
She had never battled a ship before. In all her dragon memories, there were few in which humans had opposed dragons. She discovered quickly that seizing rigging in her talons was a bad idea. The rocking vessels did not offer satisfactory resistance to her attack. They swayed away from her, and canvas and lines tangled around her clawed feet. With a wild shake, she tore herself free of the ship. She flapped her wings to gain altitude. High above the harbour, she divested her claws of the tangled mess of lines, spars and canvas and with satisfaction watched it crash down amidships of a galley, foundering the smaller craft.
On her second pass, she selected a two-masted ship as her prey. The men on board, seeing her stoop towards them, filled the air with arrows which clattered against her, falling back onto the ship below. As she swept by the ship, a slash of her tail sliced both masts. Tangled with sails and rigging, they fell, but Tintaglia flew clear of them. She passed low over a galley and the men on board leapt over the sides into the sea. She roared her delight. So quickly they learned to fear her!
The beating of her great wings set smaller craft rocking. A chorus of shouts and screams rose in homage to her fury. She drove herself skywards and then swung back over the harbour. As the winter sun broke free of the horizon, she saw a brief, dazzling reflection of her gleaming body on the dark water below. Her keen eyes swept the city. The fires went unfought, the battles of mere humans unjoined. All eyes were lifted to her, all motion suspended in paralysed worship of her wrath. Her heart soared on their awestruck regard. The bouquet of their fear rose to her nostrils and intoxicated her with power. She drew breath and screamed, releasing with the sound a mist of milky poison. It drifted on the morning wind. A few seconds passed before the satisfaction of agonized shrieks rose to her. In the ships below her, the droplets of poison ate skin and sank deep into flesh, piercing bone and eating through gut before passing out the other sides of the victims’ twitching bodies. Battle venom, born in the acid waters of her birth, strong enough to penetrate the layered armour of an adult dragon, passed unspent through the watery flesh of the humans and sizzled through the wood of their ships. The tiniest drop created a wound that would not heal. So much for those who had thought to pierce her flesh with arrows!
Then, through the turmoil and screams, through the crackling of flames and the singing of wind, a lone, clear voice caught her attention. She swivelled her head to separate the sound from all others. A voice sang, a lad’s voice, high but not shrill. Sweet and true, it rang the word. ‘Tintaglia, Tintaglia! Blue queen of winds and sky! Tintaglia, glorious one, terrible in your beauty, lovely in your wrath! Tintaglia, Tintaglia!’
Her keen eyes found the small figure. He stood alone, atop a mound of rubble, heedless that his silhouetted body made a perfect arrow target. He stood straight, joyous, his arms lifted, and he sang to her with the tongue of an Elderling. His flattery spelled her, and he wove her name into his song, uttering it with ineffable sweetness.
Her wings gathered the wind beneath them. She banked and turned in graceful spirals, leaning against the air currents. His song spiralled with her, wrapping her in ensorcelling praise. She could not resist him. She dropped lower and lower to hear his adoring words. Battered ships fled the harbour. She no longer cared. Let them go.
This city was poorly built to welcome a dragon. Nonetheless, not too far from her charming suitor there was a plaza that would suffice for a landing spot. As she beat her wings to slow her descent, many humans scuttled away, taking flimsy shelter behind ruined buildings. She paid them no mind. Once on the ground, she shook out her great wings and then folded them. Her head swayed with the rhythm of her minstrel’s words.
‘Tintaglia, Tintaglia, who outshines both moon and sun. Tintaglia, bluer than a rainbow’s arc, gleaming brighter than silver. Tintaglia, swift-winged, sharp-clawed, breathing death to the unworthy. Tintaglia, Tintaglia.’
Her eyes spun with pleasure. How long had it been since a dragon’s praises had been sung? She looked on the boy, and saw he was enraptured with her. His eyes gleamed with her beauty reflected. She recalled that she had touched this one, once before. He had been with Reyn when she rescued him. That solved the mystery, then. It happened, sometimes, that a mortal was enraptured by a dragon’s touch. Young ones were especially vulnerable to such a linking. She looked on the small creature fondly. Such a butterfly, doomed to a brevity of days, and yet he stood before her, fearless in his worship.
She opened wide her wings in token of her approval. It was the highest accolade a dragon could afford a mortal, though his juvenile song scarcely deserved it: sweet as his words were, he was scarcely a learned minstrel. She shivered her wings so that their blue and silver rippled in the winter sunlight. He was dazzled into silence.
With amusement, she became aware of the other humans. They hung back, peering at her from behind trees and over walls. They clutched their weapons and trembled with fear of her. She arched her long neck and preened herself to let them see the ripple of her muscle. She stretched her claws, scoring the paving stones of the street. Casually, she cocked her head and looked down on her little admirer. She deliberately spun her eyes, drawing his soul into them, until she could feel how painfully his heart leapt in his chest. As she released him, he took breath after panting breath, yet somehow remained standing. Truly, small as he was, he was yet worthy to sing a dragon’s praises.
‘Well, minstrel,’ she purred with amusement. ‘Do you seek a boon in exchange for your song?’
‘I sing for the joy of your existence,’ he answered boldly.
‘That is well,’ she replied. The other, hidden humans behind Selden ventured fractionally closer to her, weapons at the ready. Fools. She clashed her tail against the cobblestones, which sent them leaping back to shelter. She laughed aloud. Yet here came one other who refused to fear her, stepping boldly out to confront her. Reyn carried a sword, but he allowed it to hang, point down, from his hand.
‘So you have returned,’ Reyn spoke quietly. ‘Why?’
She snorted at him. ‘Why? Why not? I go where I will, human. It is not for you to question a Lord of the Three Realms. The little one has chosen a better role. You were wiser to emulate him.’
Reyn set the bloodied tip of his blade to the street. She smelled blood on him and the sweat and smoke of battle. He dared frown at her. ‘You clear our harbour of a few enemy vessels and expect us to grovel with gratitude?’
‘You imagine a significance to yourself that does not exist, Reyn Khuprus. I care nothing for your enemies, only my own. They challenged me with arrows. They met a fitting end, as will all who defy me.’
The dark-haired Rain Wilder drew closer. He leaned on his sword, she saw now. He was wearier than she had thought. Blood had dried in a thin line down his left arm. When he lifted his face to look up at her, the thin winter sunlight glinted across his scaled brow. She quirked her ears in amusement. He wore her mark, and did not even know it. He was hers, and yet he thought he could match wills with her. The boy’s attitude was more fitting. He stood as straight and tall as he could. Although he also looked up at the dragon, his eyes were worshipful, not defiant. The boy had potential.
Unfortunately, the potential would take time to develop, time she did not have just now. If the remaining serpents were to be rescued, the humans must work swiftly. She fixed her gaze on Reyn. She had enough experience of humans to know that the others would listen to him before they would listen to a boy. She would speak through him. ‘I have a task for you, Reyn Khuprus. It is of the utmost importance. You and your fellows must set aside all else to attend to it, and until it is completed, you must think of nothing else.’
He stared up at her incredulously. Other humans drifted in from the rubble. They did not come too close but stood where they could hear her speak to Reyn without attracting undue attention to themselves. They regarded her with wide eyes, as ready to flee as to cheer her. Champion or foe, they wondered.
She let them wonder, concentrating her will on Reyn. But he defied her. ‘Now you imagine a significance to yourself that does not exist,’ he told her coldly. ‘I have no interest in performing any task for you, dragon.’
His words did not surprise her. She shifted back onto her hindquarters, towering over him. She opened out her wings, to emphasize further her size. ‘You have no interest in living, then, Reyn Khuprus,’ she informed him.
He should have quailed before her. He did not. He laughed. ‘There you are right, worm Tintaglia. I have no interest in living, and that is your doing already. When you allowed Malta to go to her death you killed any regard I ever held for you. And with Malta died my interest in living. So do your worst to me, dragon. But I shall never again bend my neck to your yoke. I regret that I attempted to free you. Better you had perished in the dark before you drew my love to her death.’
His words shocked her. It was not just that he was insufferably rude to her; he truly had lost all awe of her. This pathetic little two-legs, creature of a few breaths, was willing to die this very instant, because – she turned her head and regarded him closely. Ah! Because he believed she had allowed his mate to die. Malta.
‘Malta is not dead,’ she exclaimed in disgust. ‘You waste your emotion and grandiose words on something you have imagined. Set aside such foolishness, Reyn Khuprus. The task you must perform is vastly more important than one human’s mating. I honour you with an undertaking that may well save the whole of my race.’
The dragon lied. His contempt knew no bounds. He himself had been up and down the river in the Kendry, and found not a trace of his beloved. Malta was dead, and this dragon would lie to bend him to her will. He gazed past her disdainfully. Let her strike him where he stood. He would not give her another word. He lifted his chin, set his jaw, and waited to die.
Even so, what he saw now widened his eyes. As he stared past Tintaglia, he glimpsed furtive shadows stalking through the ruins towards her. They moved, they paused, they moved, and each time they got closer to the dragon. Their leather armour, and tails of hair marked them as Chalcedeans. They had rallied, despite the shattered ships in the harbour, despite their many dead, and now, swords and pikes in hand, battleaxes at the ready, they were converging on the dragon. A grim smile twisted Reyn’s lips. This turn of events suited him well. Let his enemies battle one another. When they were finished, he would take on any survivors. He watched them come and said nothing, but wished them well.